


The Most Wearisome Time of the Year

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Frigging Festivities [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A continued lack of festive feelings, Because everyone needs a pick me up, Christmas, Coronavirus, Covid Christmas, Doctor!Castiel, Domestic, Established Relationship, Good riddance to 2020, M/M, With some fluff though, nurse!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: It's December twenty twenty, so if ever there was a time for a Christmas miracle, it would benow.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Series: Frigging Festivities [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/184394
Comments: 23
Kudos: 119





	The Most Wearisome Time of the Year

“It’s a wonderful life,” Dean deadpans, walking into their bedroom to find Cas sat in his pyjamas and his god-awful christmas jumper, cradling a cup of coffee like it’s his favourite thing in the universe with the TV on. “Really? _Meg_ has a lot to fucking answer for.”

“I like it,” Castiel frowns. “I’m being _festive_.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, “Turn it off halfway through and you’ve still got a _upper_ compared to my day. Thought you’d be asleep.”

“Hmm. Had this idea that it might be nice to see my husband while he was conscious.” Cas says, pausing the TV and fixing his gaze on him. He’s got a _point_ , because it’s been an all hands-on-deck situation --- for most of the whole damn shitty year, really, but definitely since mid-November when all the shit started to hit the fan, the fan belt, the electrics and every single thing in the damn vicinity of the fan -- but somehow their hands have been on different decks. Dean’s on some crazy-ass shift pattern because they’re completed fucked, nurse wise, and Dean’s a sucker who can’t say _no_ when Missouri asks him for his help. He’s relatively sure the last time they had a conversation that was longer than ‘when’s your next shift?’ and ‘how did you sleep?’ was a good week and half ago and he _does_ want to see Cas, but slightly _more than that_ he wants to see a double measure of whisky and his bed. 

Which is not to say that Cas isn’t as fucking awesome as he’s always been, it’s just that Dean is _really_ damn tired and emotionally wrung out and fed up of freaking everything. 

“Barely.” Dean throws back, “Gonna take a shower, then you can see me.” 

“Is that a euphemism?” Cas asks, raising an eyebrow at him over his coffee. 

“I’ll let you know,” Dean says, because he feels particularly _unsexy_ right now, but…. But maybe after a second-shower (he technically already showered after stripping off all his damn PPE because he feels way too fucking gross at the end of a shift to _dream_ about getting in his baby, but he’d still rather have a second attempt at washing off the day) he’ll feel a little more like making out with his sexy-ass-doctor-husband rather than smothering himself with one of those pillows. 

In less than eight hours, he has to drive back to the hospital. He’s lost track of Cas’ shifts completely, but he’d thought that the laws of sleep meant Cas would be unconscious by the time Dean got home and gone by the time Dean woke up. He remembers some conversation they had when he was half-conscious when Cas asked next time they’d be able to eat a meal together and Dean had calculated it at some point mid January, but definitely not on his birthday. 

He _does_ feel a little better by the time he’s showered and shaved (he’s sure as hell not gonna feel like it when he wakes up and it pushes some of the thinking out of his head for long enough that feels slightly more alive; plus, Cas likes him best clean shaven). More like a human being, at least.

By the time he emerges, Cas has switched over to the news.

“This is worse than _It’s a Wonderful Life_ ,” Dean mutters because, honestly, the last damn thing Dean wants to think about after a twelve hour shift that turned into a thirteen and half hour shift because they’re _understaffed as fuck_ is the fucking news. Mostly, it just makes him angry. He’s never hated _humanity_ as a collection of feckless, moronic idiots more than he has this year, to the point that if someone mentions the word ‘facemask’ or ‘obstruction of civil liberties’ or ‘anti vaxxers’ he clenches his fists. He’s pretty sure if he was face to face with anyone spouting any of that bullshit in real life, Dean would give them a black eye before they got to the end of saying ‘it’s a hoax’ or ‘only a one percent mortality rate’ and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t regret it. “Turn it off.”

“A hundred and ninety three thousand.” Cas says, picking up the remote and turning off the TV as requested. Cas has managed to maintain some degree of interest in _what’s actually happening_ in the world and tends to give him the highlights (or, you know, lowlights), but Dean figures that the reality of it pretty much trickles down to his actual life. He knows the country is taking a nose dive into the twilight zone, because he’s living it. 

“Don’t care.” Dean says, slumping down onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow and exhaling. 

“How many?”

“Deaths or free beds?”

“Free beds.”

“Uh, _zero_.” Dean says, “Although Frank Devereaux was about to kick it when I left, so. One. They’re --- giving us another ward.” 

“He used to work at the hospital.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Before your time. Good guy.”

“Is that why you stayed late?” Cas asks, low. Dean’s glad he doesn’t offer any platitudes, because there’s nothing really to _say_ about all of it. He didn’t really _know_ Frank and… it shouldn’t make it all that different that he remembers him when he was healthy. The guy was retired with crappy lungs and not that much hope of pulling through after it got bad -- they knew that, Frank knew that -- and, really, it’s not as sad as the perfectly healthy dad of three that died about halfway through the shift after a few days of oxygen and ventilators and preparing his wife for bad news, it just _feels_ more real. Heavier. Different.

“No,” Dean mutters into the pillow, “Charlie caught the plague. She says she feels okay, but she tested positive and her and Dorothy’s were supposed to be on shift, so. Missouri was trying to find someone.”

“Did they?”

“Nope,” Dean says, finally dislodging his head from his pillow and turning to look at him, because… It’s _fucking ridiculous_. He read about some hospital not that far away where they were citing the CDC’s rules on _staff shortages_ and _quarantine wards_ at the beginning of the month after some nurse tried kicking up a fuss about patient safety and wanted to get them all on board with campaigning for change, or something, like Dean had _any energy_ to care about anything except what was right in front of him at the time. He _does_ remember thinking about how particularly insane it would be to bring in staff that were _confirmed infectious_ and how Missouri would never let that happen because she cared about the staff and the patients too much, but _here they fucking are_. “Said I’d work a double, but Missouri said if I stayed any longer she was pretty sure I’d kill someone, so --- she’s, Charlie was only supposed to be on quartinine ICU twice this week anyway and Dorothy’s usually in peadtactics but…”

“That is _insane_.”

“Maybe I should’ve stayed to watch Frank die,” Dean says, “Charlie never met him, or that new Doc, but…

“Dean,” Cas says, “You needed to leave.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, because he _really_ needed to fucking leave. Honestly, he needed to leave about six hours ago, after that dad-of-three’s wife got to come in to say goodbye, bundled up in plastic, trying to hug him goodbye. He hadn’t even turned forty, yet. His wife told him he’d been training for a goddamn marathon. There’s no _reason_ why he should've been one of the unlucky ones but that’s the _thing_ about this shitty, awful disease; that it’s all well and good talking about _one percent_ and _would have died anyway_ and _underlying health conditions_ , but sometimes things don’t go that way. Sometimes it’s someone you care about. Sometimes this stuff comes out of the blue. Sometimes it’s a ninety year old dear with underlying health problems and that’s _still_ someone’s mother, someone’s grandma, _someone_ with a life and plans and feelings and breath in their lungs, until there isn’t. Death is sad, always, but it’s not just expendable, sick oldies who are suffering. It can happen to fucking anyone; diesease doesn’t really discriminate.

There’s not really time to get sentimental about it because they’re working on minimum staff, with everyone doing voluntary overtime, but --- Dean’s always tried to treat people like human beings, to care a little, to try and make people smile. 

He volunteered for all this way back in March, but it doesn’t really _suit him_. It’s hard to communicate care and laughter through PPE. At the moment, everything’s so fast-moving that he doesn’t really get to _know anyone_ or build relationships. As soon as there’s a bed or a ventilator free, then it’s re-filled. They’re getting transfer requests from a more rural hospital a few miles away every other day and they’re playing a shitty game of prioritisation and trying to protect their own resources, because they’re stretched _so damn thin_. In the background, there’s all this talk about hospital politics and shit decisions that someone has to make. Cancelling routine operations to make more space. Cancelling _cancer treatment_ to get more space and because hospital isn’t necessarily a good place for anyone whose immunosuppressed to be, anyway. Hell, Dean’s pretty sure the hospital isn’t a good place for _anyone_ right now, if you can avoid it. It’s shitty and hard and being covered in plastic sucks and coronavirus fucking sucks and _death sucks_.

He needed to leave. 

“Can I help?” Cas asks.

“Take that fucking christmas jumper off, for a start.”

“Is that a flirtation?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Dean says, curling into his side and half-smiling at him in a way he hopes puts across that he finds Cas no less fucking beautiful than he did seven years ago, when they first started this thing, he’s just tired and hollowed out. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, anyway?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “But… I missed you.”

“Must’ve done, if you’re sacrificing _sleep_ ,” Dean says, leaning forward to kiss him, briefly. “Missed you too. You and sleep. When are you back at work?”

“Hmm. Two hours.”

“ _Fuck COVID-19_.”

“I don’t think that would be very sanitary.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Dean says, “I’m _vaccinated_ , sweetheart.” 

“It won’t _work_ yet,” Cas says, smiling slightly as he leans forward and kisses him again, warm and affectionate.

“Oh yeah, talk chemistry to me again, Doc.” Dean says.

“How was it?”

“Have --- huh. Have we really not talked since then?” Dean asks, rubbing his forehead and stretching out his arms. He… time has been a bit wonky all year, really. Too long and too short and _painfully_ hard work. It’s plausible that they haven’t had a real conversation _at all_ in the past week, but he’d have thought that he’d have at least had a text conversation about it. Jesus. “But --- fine. Any update on yours?”

“Hmm, some point in the new year,” Cas says, and…. Honestly, Dean’s pretty sure he’ll feel so much better after Cas has been jabbed up than he did about his own, because it’s _one thing_ Dean risking himself, but it’s another if he picked something up and brought it home to Cas. Neither of them are high risk (or he wouldn’t have volunteered, although he’d have still ended up here due to staffing, most likely), but that doesn't always _mean_ anything. “Either way, I’d prefer it if you _didn’t_ fuck anything, including COVID-19, regardless of your personal safety.”

“Except you.”

“Obviously,” Cas smiles, “And --- happy anniversary, by the way.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says, suddenly feeling like a bit of an ass because, right. Anniversary. He doesn’t necessarily consider himself to be a fucking _romanitc_ , but he does normally acknowledge it’s existence in _some way_. It’s a little hard to forget given the date but… these past few weeks have been such a freaking blur and _freaking Christmas_ has been such an anger-inducing topic that Dean’s been ignoring it harder than he had been the year they first got together. “Christmas.”

“Christmas,” Cas acknowledges. “Just.”

“Did we …” Dean begins, pinching his forehead, “Thought we had some time off overlap today. And a freaking zoom family party. Someone threatened to post us turkey.”

“All of those things are true,” Cas says, “Of sorts. I’m only working five till twelve.”

“Who --- the fuck are these shifts, man?”

“But I’m on call.”

“So you’re _probably working_ ,” Dean says, “Alright. Well --- I’m back on at one.”

Even the _concept_ of it is making him tired, which isn’t necessarily surprising. Twelve-hours-on-twelve-off has always been its own special kind of exhaustion, but this is his fifth this week. Technically, he had a full twenty four hours off in the middle of one, but that was a switch between days and nights and he spent most of it in a groggy fog, trying to reset his damn sleep schedule.

“If you’re taking back over from Charlie, you should start late.”

“Cas, she has fucking _coronavirus_ ,” Dean says, “Not --- it’s fine.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “You’ve worked over on _three_ of your twelve hour shifts this week.”

“We’re _slammed_ , Cas.”

“I know,” Cas frowns, “But Missouri isn’t _wrong_ , Dean. If you keep this up you _will_ start making mistakes.”

“M’fine.”

“You forgot that it was _Christmas Day_ today.” Cas says, with that perfect little head tilt that Dean usually appreciates a lot more. 

“It’s three in the freaking morning,” Dean mutters, “Don’t count as forgetting till at _least_ eight AM.”

“I’m sure Robbie will be awake much before eight.”

“Allright,” Dean concedes, “But he won’t be up _now_ , so --- free pass, man.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “My plan was to join the zoom call at twelve from the hospital car park. If you could start work at two we could have lunch together.”

_Lunch together_ sounds good, even if it’ll be a rushed job. They’d have about an hour if Cas finished bang on time, which seems unlikely. Still, if he managed less than half an hour over, they could have a full thirty minutes to share a meal in the _daylight_. Sounds like a lot like a Christmas fucking miracle.

“We even own any food?”

“Ellen made us Christmas dinner to microwave. It’s in the fridge.”

“That woman is a saint,” Dean says, “I --- alright. I’ll text Charlie and ask, but if she starts feeling rough the _hell_ am I letting her work overtime.”

“It’s not _overtime_ if she started her shift late.”

“Cas, she _got sick_.”

“Currently, she’s asymptomatic,” Cas says, with that same almost-cold logic-voice that Dean’s pretty sure is the reason his family took a while to warm up to the guy. He can come across pretty down the line, if you don’t _know_ this is all coming from good-husbanding. Fuck knows Dean’s shit at putting himself first, so it’s nice that Cas commits to it. “And I have sympathy with her, but only seeing you between three in the morning and five in the morning and for a _video call_ Christmas dinner is a new low point in our history of anniversaries.”

Dean considers that for a few moments.

“Worse than that time I spent my life savings on a drug addict?”

“Yes.”Cas says, with an almost-smile playing at his mouth. 

“ _Worse_ than the time I got stabbed?”

“I --- _at least_ got to see you.” Cas says, although Dean’s pretty sure the guy doesn’t really _mean_ that one.“Even if you were hospitalised.”

“Didn’t know you were waiting up,” Dean says, “Would’ve text, or something.”

“It’s _fine_ , Dean,” Cas says, reaching out to brush his fingertips over Dean’s arm. “I was expecting it.”

“You gonna try and get some more sleep before your shift?”

“Not now,” Cas says, “Are you hungry?”

“Starvin’” 

“I’ll make you some food.”

“You’re _awesome_ ,” Dean exhales, flopping back onto the pillows and half-shutting his eyes. He could happily sleep right now, but it’s _hard_ to turn down an hour and a half of Cas-time, and food.

Cas comes back to bed fifteen minutes later with bacon-and-eggs for two, which means there’s an outside chance of them eating together _twice_ today. Granted, this is Dean’s… evening meal and Cas’ breakfast (and he picks at it more than actually eats, because Cas is crap at eating much before seven AM; Dean’s got no idea, really, how he managed to be picky about when he eats after the forty eight hour shifts he used to do), but it’s still _something_.

“This the seven year anniversary you dreamed of?” Dean asks, after he’s cleared his plates and Cas has curled himself under Dean’s arm, both of them half-looking at the still turned off TV with no real desire or energy to move.

Cas leans forward to kiss him.

“More or less,” He says and then he puts on some _really old_ episode of Doctor Sexy, like one of the ones they watched that first year, where Dean was so torn up and angry about John Winchester and Sam and Cas was attractive and infuriating and lonely and somehow _always there_. This awesome, cynical distraction, with his blue eyes and his prissy attitude and their mutual festive-inspired-rage.

And, seven years later, Dean still _really_ hates Christmas. 

*

He wakes up _slowly_ and it takes a little while for him to realise how fucking _weird_ that is and then he sits straight up in bed, fumbling for his damn phone to work out what the time is because _no goddamn way_ should he feel this well-rested after his allocated six hours of sleep, and ---

\--- _Two pm._.

“I ----- fuck,” Dean mutters, because he is _sure_ he put his damn alarm on, but either Charlie is still feeling healthy and Dean’t not supposed to be at work until _now_ or he’s an hour late, and neither of those thing are ideal. “Goddamn fucking _alarms ---_ ” 

“Dean,” Cas says, strolling back into their bedroom with a cup of coffee and a concerned expression. Not concerned enough for the given situation, but concerned. 

“M’ so fucking late —-”

“Ah,” Cas says, “Don’t worry, Missouri cancelled your shift. I turned off your alarm. I left you a note.”

“ _You_ turned off my alarm.” Dean repeats, heart rate slowing down, panic giving way to confusion, because --- he _remembers_ beginning to fall asleep in the middle of that episode of Dr Sexy and… he remembers a phone ringing, half-rousing, and Cas pressing a kiss to his forehead and saying _’I’ll deal with it_ ’ and then he fell into sleep a lot like he fell in love with Cas in the first place; heavy and sudden and quick. And if he’s been asleep _since then_ then that’s --- _ten goddamn hours_. Holy shit. “Say it again.”

“Missouri called to cancel your shift before I left for work,” Cas says, “I turned off your alarm. I text you about it and left a note. Several actually, there’s one in the bathroom. You’re not late.”

“But --- _how_?” Dean says, “There’s --- it’s Christmas. We’ve got no damn staff.”

“Well,” Cas says, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at him with this fond expression that always makes his chest feel warm and a little stupid. “There are currently twenty eight members of hospital staff off awaiting a negative test,” Cas continues, which is depressing enough in itself because, fuck. “And…. Missouri decided if they were already having _Charlie_ work in the COVID ward, then asking any other asymptomatic COVID-positve staff who wished to come in and work in that ward today might be safer than having a nurse that’s already worked more hours the then hospital guidelines _so far this week_ , and who just slept for _ten hours_ despite telling me that ‘you give me four hours and I’m golden’ for seven years.”

“That’s,” Dean begins, “That’s the most depressing Christmas miracle of all time.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “And _I’m not on call_.”

“You,” Dean says, “You’re --- you’re not at work. I’m not at work, you’re not at work.” 

“Perhaps you need some more sleep.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, “We’re _both off work_ , on fucking Christmas day.”

“And,” Cas says, this warm, curling smile and that dumbass Christmas jumper (fucking _Benny_ and his twisted sense of humour), “I’ve got an appointment for my vaccine next week.”

“Holy shit,” Dean says, “I --- Cas. I think you’re about to see a forty one year old grown ass man start to believe in Santa.”

“Hmm,” Cas says, “I think you have well and truly earned your position on the _nice list_ this year.”

“No shit,” Dean half-snorts, “Hey --- what about Frank?”

Cas shakes his head slightly, expression leveling off.

“He passed away about half an hour after you left last night,” Cas says, “I called his daughter and gave her your sympathies.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, chest a little hollow. He didn’t even really know Frank had a daughter until he called her and told her should try and get to the hospital, but she was in California. She couldn’t get a _test_ or a flight and she was in the high-risk category, anyway, and her voice broke a little as she said she didn’t think it would be possible or practical to get there. Not on Christmas Eve in the middle of a fucking pandemic. 

“I just put on a pot of coffee,” Cas says, voice back to low and soft, “Was going to come and wake you, as someone has been very patiently waiting to speak to you to open some of his presents.”

“I’ll --- freshen up,” Dean says, “Coffee sounds good.”

“Okay,” Cas says, dropping a kiss on his cheek and heading back out the room, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts and this weird feeling of being _well rested_.

And… _Christmas_. 

Christmas with Castiel. _Actual_ freaking Christmas day, with honest-to-god Christmas dinner to microwave, with zoom calls and… and _freaking anniversary sex_. Presents. Coffee in bed with his _goddamn husband_ , like that’s a thing that they get to do these days.

(Cas really did leave a lot of notes about the not-working thing, including this adorable ass post-it note on the bathroom mirror that says _Don’t panic and go back to bed. Check your phonte and go back to bed. Also, Merry Christmas._.)

Plus, Cas comes back upstairs balancing coffee, toast, a bag of presents over his arm and his tablet, which already has the distinct tones of an over-excited three year old screaming _Christmassss_ out of it and…. Yeah, it’s a fucking tragedy that Frank is dead, but _right now_ Dean’s not in a hospital surrounded by disease and fear and death, he’s at home, in his bed, and his fucking perfect Nephew wants to open his Christmas presents. It’s time to goddamn compartmentalise. 

“Uncclee Deeaaaannn!!!”

“Hey buddy,” Dean says, as Cas props the tablet up on his knees and crawls back into bed next to him. “Did Santa come visit you last night, kid?”

“Yes!” Robbie declares, still decked out in Christmas pajamas and jumping-around with enough enthusiasm that he’s only on the video-screen about fifty percent of the time, but Dean’s kinda used to that. He hasn’t seen him in real life for long enough that it makes his throat tight, but Jess has asthma and Dean’s not about to take unnecessary fucking risks. 

“Merry Christmas Dean,” Sam says, his glorious long-haired idiot of a brother, who tilts the camera a little so Dean can see his face as well as his legs.

“As it turns out,” Dean says because, honestly, he’s still catching up.

And by the time he’s watched Robbie open the car set and the batman shoes they bought him (with Jessica’s help; Cas wrapped them up and he’s way too fucking liberal with the cellotape), he’s almost overwhelmed with it. Robbie babbles his half-incomprehensible thanks into the video -- Dean’s a little better at deciphering toddler-speak in real life, but over video he usually needs Sam to translate some of it --- and then demands that they open _their presents_ which is how Dean ends up not-quite-teary-eyed over the reindeer mug that Robbie ‘made’ for him. Sam’s got him a trio of photos featuring the last time they all met up in person, over the summer in a park when things looked like they were getting better, with Robbie on his shoulders and Cas laughing and the semi-traditional six pack of beer and, god, Dean is proud of him, coming up to _eight year sober_ with his awesome kid and his awesome wife, breaking a generational tradition of shitty father figures with care and patience. 

“Robbie’s got something else to show you,” Jess says, with her eyes sparkling, “But we need a minute to get ready. Right, little man?”

“Yes!” Robbie yells, “We need a minute.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Dean says, as Robbie makes a mad dash stage left. “So --- how long has he been up?”

“Since half six,” Sam says, “Ran into my room screaming _’It’s Christmas, which means chocolate for breakfast_ so, thanks for that, Dean.” 

“My pleasure,” Dean grins.

“You won’t be laughing _next year_ , when you’re the one who’s getting up with him.”

“Pretty sure I’m working that day.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Sam says, but he’s smiling, “So how _are_ things?”

“Bad,” Dean says, making a face at his coffee. “Really bad. Just --- don’t go to fucking hospital, Sammy.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“M’ serious,” Dean says, “Something happens, call one of us. Jo. Don’t --- just avoid it, okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding at him, “Okay. Can’t believe you slept for _ten hours_.”

“Like a baby,” Cas subs in, folding a hand over Dean’s knee and smiling at the camera.

“Not any baby _I’ve_ had,” Sam mutters back, “Oh, here comes Robbie.”

“Tadaaaa!” Robbie declares, jumping back into view with his hands held out wide, dressed up in kid-scrubs and a cape, with a stethoscope around his neck, “Now I’m a _nurse doctor superhero_ too.” 

Dean’s heart was not fucking prepared for this.

“Robbie asked Santa to bring him a nurse costume.” Jess says.

“The cape was his idea.”

“The cape is freaking awesome, kiddo,” Dean says, as Cas tightens his grip on his knee because _god_ he wants to be there. Wants to scoop the kid up in his arms and hug him. Hug _Sammy_ and Jess. It’s --- this isn’t the same. It’s more than he was anticipating, but it’s not what he _wants_ , in his soul. He gets it. He gets the emotional cost of not seeing your damn family at Christmas, but it’s just… weighed up against the _cost of life_ , the cost of zero-goddamn-beds and calling on covid-positive staff to work because _they’ve got no fucking choice_. He understands why people have been pushing it, on one level, but it’s --- _it’s one day_. It shouldn’t be a big fucking deal, but Dean’s been fighting the fact that it _is_ for years. And _it’s not worth it_. “You know we’d be there if we could, don’t you Robbie?”

“Yes,” Robbie says, serious and simple, “I know.”

He doesn’t last that much longer before Robbie loses interest in the video-call thing. Sam tries to keep him engaged but the kid’s three and Dean _gets_ it’s hard to keep him focused on one thing at the best of time, let alone when there’s presents and Santa, and Jess takes him off to play with his new dominos set.

“So,” Sam says, “We were waiting for you to wake up before we organised the family thing, so I’ll message Jo and Bobby.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, “Just --- give us a couple of hours first.”

“Can do,” Sam says, “And Dean. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, because he’s been a little lax, lately. They’d been pretty good about weekly-video chats, but it’s _hard_ after working crazy hours and being surrounded by death, while the rest of the world is whining about the adjustment of working-from-home and too-many-video calls. He’s been overwhelmed, mostly, with nothing left to talk about the fucking coronavirus, which he doesn’t want to do. He’ll do better. He misses Sam like crazy.“You too, Sammy.” 

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, after his brother has hung up and they’re left with their quiet, empty house. It’s probably for the best, because Dean’s not sure he has the energy to deal with an over-excited kid right now (and God help the people who do their jobs and have kids; Dean has no fucking idea how any of them are still walking and talking), but he still _aches_ with it. He’s never not seen Robbie on Christmas. He’s only missed a handful of Christmasses with Sam, really. Sure, normally he works some or all of it, but they have workarounds. Celebrate it early, celebrate it late, have Dean show up at midnight with presents and chocolate and let Sam and Jess mop up the over-tired over-excited kid later. 

“No,” Dean says with a shaky laugh, smothering some of his emotions in the curve of Cas’ neck, “I hate Christmas.”

“No you don’t,” Cas counters, running a hand down his spine as Dean deals with the very real possibility that he might fucking cry, which is a load of bullcrap. Goddamn _Robbie_ with his painted reindeer mug and his nurse outfit. Fucking _Christmas_ making all of this seem worse, even though Dean barely relalised what day of the freaking week it is. Now he knows, it _hurts_ , and hasn’t that always been the damn problem with Christmas.“You love Christmas.”

“Fine, but _you_ hate Christmas.” 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Cas says, in that gravelly, butter-rich voice of his, as he continues to half-hold him. “I haven’t hated Christmas for a very long time.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, pulling back to look at him.

“I don’t even hate _this_ Christmas,” Cas says, “Because even though I’m not getting everything I wanted, I do get to _see you_.”

“God, I love you,” Dean says, “I’d be a fucking _wreck_ if you weren’t --- you’re the best fucking thing ever. Do we --- do we need to call your mother?”

“No,” Cas says, “I told her we were both working.”

“You are _perfect_.”

v “Thank you.” Cas says, “I miss them.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “‘Least I get to see my handsome-as-hell personal Dr Sexy, though.”

“Is _that_ a flirtation?”

“Hell fucking yes,” Dean says, “Just… gotta text Ruby first, check she’s not in some ditch somewhere, but _then_ you bet your ass it’s a fliration. Euphemism. Straight up come on. Gonna _seduce_ you so damn hard you won’t remember your own name.”

“You’re a very good man, Dean Winchester,” Cas says, kicking the covers off his legs and stretching.

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to take these out of the way,” Cas says, holding Robbie’s reindeer-mug with as much care and precision as he ever has with anything, with the sort of reverence that makes Dean probably even more in love with him. “And then I am going to study my name in anticipation of being thoroughly seduced.” 

“Fine,” Dean agrees, digging out Ruby’s number and texting her a base _‘you alive?’_ , before he goes back and adds in some vague christmas sentiments. He probably still hates her --- probably --- but… her mom died at Christmas and Dean can’t exactly _deny_ that Ruby’s been doing well. Four years sober, now, and half way through studying to be a _fucking nurse_ which Dean thinks is actually a terrible goddamn idea, but it’s not actually his buisness. He _told_ her he thought it was completely stupid when she asked him if it was _okay_ if she stopped paying him back for rehab for awhile to fund her studies (which won him a lot of squinty frowns from Cas, who thinks it’s sweet that Ruby is ‘following in his footsteps’ rather than the whole idea being the latter part of a very predictable greek-tragedy that ends in Ruby stealing narcotics from the hospital and dying in a pool of her zomit, but she’s proved him wrong so far). Obviously, he told her not to worry about the money and two weeks ago she sent him a Christmas card of Christmassy hospital staff and one of those ‘not all heroes wear capes’ captions and wrote _’Thought you’d hate this as much as me. Hope you have a shit Christmas._ ’ that Dean put on the mantelpiece, so maybe he’s getting sentimental in his old age. 

When Cas comes back upstairs, he’s shed his Christmas jumper. 

The rest of his clothes don’t last much longer.

Depressingly, Dean’s pretty sure it’s the first time they’ve _ever_ managed anniversary-sex. 

*

They eat their microwaved christmas dinner on the sofa in their underwear and it is _fucking incredible_. There’s a part of Dean that feels a little residual guilt about not being at work, but Cas chases that away by kissing his neck and muttering sentimental, lovely things into his skin, until Dean sort of forgets that he is a person with responsibilities and pain, and instead just feels like a very _loved_ man, with a kick-ass husband and a really great family, who have dropped off turkey-dinners and presents and give a damn about him, even though he hasn’t seen them for _months_ and he’s been a grumpy too-serious asshole for most of the conversation they have had. 

They _finally_ get round to opening the rest of their presents after Sam texts him with an innocuous _did you open our card yet?_ and Dean replies to tell him that _freaking obviously_ he’s prioritising presents over cards and, also, he’s worked a seventy hour week so _excuse Dean_ for talking the whole day a little slow. And… Benny got him some traditional christmas toilet-paper (this year with a coronavirus toilet-roll hoarding joke) and Cas another goddamn christmas jumper. They’ve got whisky and these hand-knitted scarves (Jo’s quarantine hobby) and Ellen’s cooked them a week’s worth of homemade meals --- fucking _saint_ that she is --- and Cas spent far too much money replacing his scruff leather jacket and then he gets to Sam’s Christmas card, and ---

\--- a fucking _sonogram_ falls out. 

“You _asshole_ ,” Dean beams, when they’ve finally logged onto their dumbass family zoom party and is faced with Sam’s satisfied smirk, “You total _asshole_.”

“What?” Jo asks, squashed into the screen with Bobby and Ellen. “What’s Sam done now?”

“Jessica, one presumes,” Cas comments, dry little shit. 

“I think the traditional response is _congratulations_.” Jess smiles, sparkling with this easy-joy.

“Someone one share what’s going on with the rest of the class, y’idjits.” Bobby drawls and _fuck_ Dean misses him too, but it is what it fucking-is, and… and there are still good things. There are still sonograms and unexpected days off. Christmas dinners and _anniversary sex_ (to be repeated as many times as physically possible before they go to bed, because it’s been _awhile_ ).

“Okay,” Jess says, pulling something out of her pocket and holding her own copy of a sonogram up to the camera. “Meet baby girl Winchester, coming your way in twenty twenty one.”

“Congratulations,” Cas says, just over Jo’s _squeal_ and Ellen’s fussing and Bobby’s gruff approval, and then Dean gets swept up in the magic of it. The longing to give his snot-nosed-little-brother (and soon to be father of two which, fucking hell, they’re getting old) a hug still settles under his ribs, sharper and more persistent at times like this, but, _but_ he does get to screenshot Ellen valiantly pretending that she’s not tearing-up, and Robbie waking up from his nap and finding out that he’s going to have a little sister (apparently, they wanted Dean to know first) and that’s --- that’s _something_. 

He wants to cook all of them dinner. He wants to play stupid board games and shots-poker and to give Robbie so much sugar that Sam gets genuinely annoyed at him. He _wants_ a little more time and… hell, he wants to take Cas out on a fucking date and cook him dinner and go to a goddamn movie and he wants to go for a drink with Charlie and talk about how quarantining-with-Dorothy is going. He wants a little goddamn slice of normality, but this… this has it’s own magic in a way. It’s still _something_. 

A regular christmas miracle.

After, Cas pours two glasses of the good whisky Bobby bought them and they drink to Frank Devereaux and that father of three who was training for a marathon and all the Chistmasses he had taken from him, and all those christmases that those kids will miss him and then Dean suggests they watch the rest of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ because it is, some of the time.

*

“What’s up doc?” Dean asks, blearily and a little confused, as he wakes up to find Cas nudging him awake in the dark. He’d guess he’d been asleep for a few hours by his brain-fog. Cas is back on long shifts that never quite overlap with Dean’s, so Dean would hazard a guess that he just got home. 

“Happy New Year,” Cas says, slipping under the covers and curling up next to him. “I wanted to be the first one to say it.”

“Hmm,” Dean returns, shifting to wrap an arm around him and pull him in closer. “Good fucking riddance, twenty twenty.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees with venom, “Good fucking riddance.”

“Bad day?”

“Aren’t they all, lately?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “Pretty much.”

“You can go back to sleep now,” Cas says, reaching forward to kiss him in the dark, brief and slightly clumsy. “You start work early tomorrow.”

“N’ah,” Dean says, “I wanna hold you for a while.”

“That would be nice.”

“Anyway,” Dean says, “You give me four hours, I’m golden.”

“You are incorrigible,” Cas snorts, “I am very glad that you pretended to hate Christmas all those years ago.”

“M’glad I bought you round to the whole Christmas shebang,” Dean says, sleepy and something a bit like content, in this exact moment.“Cas --- it won’t be like this forever.”

“No,” Cas agrees, cozying up to him, warm and solid and close, “Not forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for Mev33, who asked for this yesterday, and then I accidentally wrote it even though I'd already thought about it and then decided against it. As such, this is a little rough as it fell out of my keyboard in like... a few hours, with patchy-knowledge of the american situation with some googling, but I didn't want to miss the festive-train.
> 
> Over here, we were allowed one day of seeing some family for Christmas (although I was kinda lucky in that I am single person household so I was able to join households with my parents legitimately for a week or so), which worked out that I now haven't seen my beloved sister for a year, so some of this angst is mine, but I definitely don't know what it's been like to work in health care and I know that so many people have missed their families this year. So -- thank you to any of you who had to work over Christmas :) :) 
> 
> Happy New year everyone!! Here's hoping things change soon :)


End file.
